#making incoherent noises for how much i adore them!!!

[yenvengerberg]

#some things never change

[railleriee]

Top, Bottom, Switch? - BSD Men

Hello! I'm back. (finally) I've been back on my bsd brainrot. I can not get enough of them. That being said, enjoy these Headcanons of some of my bungo stray dogs favs! ( I plan to update my layout soon! Any ideas would be appreciated! )

Characters included: Dazai, Chuuya, Kunikida, Ranpo, Poe, Akutagawa, Atsushi.

Reader is non-gender specific!

Warnings: Mention of sex, bratty characters, kinks, whining, etc. (Let me know if I missed any! )

Dazai: 

Switch, a preference for top. 

I feel like when he was laying low for a year or so after leaving the PM he got around a bit. 

He’s been with multiple people and he’s definitely well experienced in bed. 

Dazai loves having power over others, resulting in his need to be a top. 

HIGH stamina, multiple rounds. 

Sex with him is wild, he’s very experimental. 

Rarely ever gets romantic during sex. 

On occasion he’d love to bottom! 

Definitely a bratty bottom, really into overstimulation.

Loves being teased in public, such a big turn on for him. 

Always down for quickies anywhere. 

Chuuya: 

Switch, reference for top. 

He’s definitely not as experienced as Dazai, and hasn't had the chance to get around a ton. 

He claims to know what he’s doing but definitely needs advice/teaching when it actually comes to it.

I like to think he’s surprisingly soft when it comes to sex.

Slow and gentle thrusts, poor baby is afraid of hurting you. 

When he’s on bottom, adores being ridden. 

He’s so sensitive and whines a bunch, whether he likes to admit it or not. 

Prevent him from touching you, it’ll drive him mad. 

Kunikida: 

He’s a top. 

I’d like to say he’s a switch but I can’t see him being on bottom. 

He’d be way too embarrassed to even admit it if he wanted to try it. 

He’s very straight to it, minimal teasing, although will take the time to prep you as needed. 

First few times were definitely awkward, although the more used to it he got, the better it got. 

Handsy. 

Hands are roaming every part of your body, he’s surprisingly skilled with them as well. 

Definitely into more sentimental sex, not into spur of the moment sex. 

Wants to make it as romantic as possible. 

Loves making you feel good <3

Ranpo: 

Switch, preference for bottom. 

He’s adorable, loves to be on bottom 

He’s lazy, and wants to do as minimal work as possible. 

BRAT! 

It’s so easy to break the poor boy, purposely misbehaves because he loves how possessive and angry you get.

He turns into a brainless mess who can’t even speak :-((

Babbling incoherent words while letting out whines. 

Begs! Deny him an orgasm and get the most precious mewls out of him. 

Very lazy if he tops, he whines and makes exaggerated sighs the entire time. 

Poe: 

Bottom, you can't change my mind.

Nothing screams bottom as much as this man. 

He’s very submissive in bed, always behaving. 

Melts when called “good boy”.

He doesn’t make a bunch of noise, but if he does he’s definitely whiny. 

Very shy! 

Reassure him, tell him how pretty he is and how he’s doing such a good job. 

Sex with him is always different. 

Experimentalist. 

Although shy, always willing to bring up new ideas and try them!

Akutagawa: 

Another bottom. 

This boy has never had sex a day in his life, so when you first did, he was clueless. 

Didn’t even know the aspect of top and bottom. 

When educated on it, he wasn’t sure what to do, although did as he thought pleased you! 

Him being on bottom is like stress relief for him.

He’s always trying to please, so someone else is pleasing HIM? He’s signed right up. 

Doesn’t make much noise, maybe a few grunts here and there. 

His entire body is sensitive, shivers anywhere you kiss him. 

Secretly adores marking. Loves having a reminiscence of the night before! 

Some of the PM notices said marks, although he never elaborates on his sex life to anyone. 

Atsushi: 

Switch, no preference. 

Where do I even start with him? He’s such a sweetheart. 

Soft and caring during, willing to try out anything you suggest as long as he doesn’t think he’d hurt you! 

Gasps a ton. 

Easily flustered, tease him during work and watch his face heat up! 

Stumbles over his words when teased. 

Like kunikida, he’s not into spur of the moment type sex. 

Into sentimental and romantic sex :-)) 

[blingblong55]

Heaven-König NSFW

Based on a request:

konig eating the reader out (please)

F!Reader, smut, MDNI, 18+, thigh riding, eating out, f!ngering

A/N: Straight to it

You had been needy all day and now that he is home, you lift your skirt and show him how you didn't have any panties on. He grins and makes you sit on his lap, the collar on your neck tied to a leash, he guides you to his lips, your legs around his waist as you grind on him. Your wet cunt touching his thigh, he slaps your ass hard, definitely going to sting later.

He bites your lower lip and then undoes your top. Your tits fall out, nipples hard, making him bite into them. You whimper but smile, he then travels to your neck, his hands guiding your hips. You moan and bite your lip, I need him more. "Such a fucking needy thing." you nod, not denying anything,. You grow impatient and ride his thigh faster, the fabric of his trousers hurting just well. Your moans and dripping cunt make him slap you once more. "You want another one, you slut?" oh how much you love how he degraded you and slapped you around as he pleases you.

He couldn't take it anymore, wanted that sweet pussy of yours to be warmed up by his face. After all, he was the best at tongue fucking you. He pushes you down on the bed, spreading your needy legs open. He lets out a low chuckle, "What a fucking beauty." he gets on his stomach and begins to eat you out. His tongue pleasuring your clit, fingers inside of you. Your hands gripped his head, and his moans and desperate groans were heard all over the room.

He slaps your inner thigh, "What a fucking whore you are, meine liebe." You move a little, trying to get him to touch you properly only to be received with another slap. "Kö- please…I need more." Your voice was desperate and of course, he didn't care to help please your needs. His tongue teasing your wet clit, eyes looking into your own, wanting to watch your reaction to him. He laughs and bites your thigh, he was in glory, adoring how beautiful you taste and the desperate moans you held for him to hear.

His tongue explores your throbbing cunt, fingers inside you, making you get closer to your orgasm, your hands on the sheets, back arching. When you least expect it, he presses his hand on your lower abdomen, heightening the pleasure more, his deep laughter making him sound cruel. Your whimpers reached his ears and that was his signal you were getting closer. He looks up and watches you as you struggle to say a word, only incoherent noises come from your soft lips. Tasted so sweet to him, the feeling of you clenching around his fingers, how they alone are giving you more pleasure than any other man could.

Your hand flies to his, trying to stop him from fingering you any further, "Please, Kö- please I need… I can't… I…ahh." but he wouldn't stop, not after making you his, for everyone to hear who you belonged to. Your eyes shut, more cries escaping your lips, he laughs once more and eats you out a bit quicker, his pre-cum leaking from his tip. The pleasure of seeing you this way for him drove him insane, making him get closer to his orgasm. "Fuck….fuck..König-ahhh…shit..i…i..ah.." your delicate lips make him listen to heaven once more. He lips and sips your juice, he moans in pleasure, your legs starting to shake. "Meine liebe, what a delightful thing you are." His accent rough this time.

A/N: can you tell I gave up somewhere in here? anyway, I hope I was good:)

Tags: @liyanahelena (know you didn't request this but why not tag you yk)

[agirlcandream84]

More Boyfriend!Frank Headcanons

Am I mentally ill at this point? All signs point to yes. Anyway, here's more Frank headcanons.

He's always a gentleman and assisting with the stuff that requires muscles BUT he does secretly like to watch you struggle with a jar of pickles or whatever from time to time. Huffing and puffing, those adorable grunts you make, watching how long you'd go without asking for help before finally strutting over to you with a smirk and taking the jar, popping it open with ease and kissing your forehead with "there ya go babydoll"

You love to be barefoot around the house and he is CONVINCED you'll catch your death, putting slippers on your feet or saying "at least put some socks on doll, you're killin' me" and he'd get especially mad when a random glass would break and you'd standing barefoot amongst the shards. Quite literally lifting you by the armpits to place you somewhere safe.

He simultaneously thinks your independence is hot AND would prefer to never let you out of his sight. So when you grab drinks with the girls, he'd lie when he dropped you off and let you think he was headed back home but really he was just waiting in the car for hours outside the bar, ready to get you home safe when the night wrapped up.

There is nothing fragile about his masculinity so when you realize you're out of mascara at 11pm, he's at the drugstore and facetiming you, showing you the wall of mascras and reading the names all confused "Super Telescopic Carbon Black? Shit, is this a mascara or a telescope sweetheart," he'd tease you before spending another 15 mins finding the exact one you wanted and then buying 3 so you have backups.

He is generally a man of few words, EXCEPT for two places: the bedroom (more on that in a minute) and when he knew you'd reached your social limit at a party or event. Just as you were feeling tapped out you'd feel a warm hand land on your back as he'd step into the conversation, taking the lead and making polite conversation so you could just stand quietly for a bit

The bedroom (and let's be real, all the other places you have sex)- this man is a talker. It's just unending streams of praise, half of them pitying in response to your incoherent whimpers. So much "takin' me so well sweetheart" or "such a good girl for me doll" or "I know baby, I'm going slow. S'alright" or "It's ok sweetheart, make all the noise you need."

He looooovveeesss to see you ride him but his chest and torso are so damn broad that straddling him and getting a rhythm feels impossible. He watches you struggle a bit, your tits mesmerizing him, before he grabs your hips, rocking you baacccck and fooorrttth, his hands occasionally wrapping around to cup and squeeze your ass cheeks.

While he certainly enjoys receiving head, he much MUCH prefers giving it. He loves the sense of total control he has over your pleasure, the way your hands tug at his hair, the way your thighs graze his face, the way "frankie" tumbles from your lips as your whole body trembles.

He fucking loves how soft you are. Soft skin, soft hair, soft squishy thighs. He's constantly kneading you, mumbling "so fuckin' soft" in your ear.

K byyyeeeeee

[sukimas]

The primary difference between gods and youkai in Touhou is of course that gods inspire awe rather than disgust. I've discussed this before.

Now, the differences between yuurei and youkai might be a little more difficult to pick up on, especially when a lot of them are spawned from similar circumstances (rejection, betrayal, othering.) Yuurei of course die from those circumstances while youkai don't really. But much more importantly, in terms of Touhou, yuurei were hurt, and remain hurt. Their existences are quintessentially defined by their suffering and regret; vengeful spirits are defined by unending anger, funayuurei by their own drowning, common yuurei are simply humans who weren't buried properly and thus cannot pass on. They both suffer and cause suffering.

Youkai, meanwhile, are beings that were initially defined by rejection. This may have caused them to hate and resent humanity at first, but they're not supposed to do that (see Eiki's lecture to Medicine); a youkai cannot survive off of that sort of notion. Youkai are nigh-universally (barring some very unwell- and I do mean physically unwell here- exceptions) happy with their current situations. They exist to cause others to feel fear, rather than feeling it themselves. They do not attack humans because of a desire for vengeance. They attack humans because they enjoy it; because they are defined as beings by enjoying the exercise of their own power, because they pass their curses onto others instead of being cursed themselves.

I think that this a key insight to understanding a fairly large number of youkai. In particular, some of the underground ones; Parsee enjoys being able to inflict jealousy even though she's often jealous herself, and Satori loves the ability to read minds even though she's hated for it. The reason that Koishi closed off her heart was because of rejection from other youkai, not from humans!

It's also key, though, to understanding the youkai that interface with the outside world. Mamizou has every right to look at humans with hatred and allow her life to be defined by it; they destroyed her home while she was there, they terrorized her into Gensoukyou. And yet she loves hanging around with them in Gensoukyou, even though she secretly dreams about how the humans of the outside world scare her. She loves exercising her superiority over them, too: "Ho ho ho!" and all that.

Yukari is similar; though she has plenty of reason to despise humanity, she... doesn't.

She resents their abandonment of things they don't need, certainly, and plots to take it all back. But she doesn't hate them. They're her funny, dear, pathetic creatures.

As with Mamizou, her relationship to humans is simply one of predation and exploitation. A youkai who misses the noise of the city. A youkai who adores violence, even when she has nothing to prove; there's little reason to talk how much she loves the scent of death in front of Okina (who can always tell if she's lying) and Sumireko (who would surely just think it was cool, rather than fearing her like she'd want) if she intends to play a role.

If anything, she hides that violent side around humans she needs to trust her. Compare her initial conversation with Reimu to those she has with Marisa and Sakuya; only when talking to the shrine maiden, who she needs to not see her as a threat, does she not bring up murder.

...Of course, I'm getting away from myself a bit. But Yukari ultimately sees humans as lesser than she is. They are not something to "take revenge on", because there's no reason to take revenge on something that gave you the greatest gift of your existence. (Other youkai we get the internality of seem to see them similarly) They are something to take advantage of to make her own life better. If it happens in a way that's ironic considering what happened to her, well, all the better; but that isn't what defines her. What defines all youkai is that they hunt humans. Nothing more, and nothing less. Without that, they would not be youkai.

Contrast Mima; though she's less developed than our dear current vengeful spirit, her raison d'etre is "to take revenge on the entire human race". Until she has accomplished that, she cannot rest; this is quite literally preventing her from dying, and once she achieves it, she will be at peace. She needs to do this; it is the very purpose for which she was reborn. What defines vengeful spirits is their desire for revenge. Nothing more, and nothing less. Without that, they would not be vengeful spirits.

So.

Youkai are differentiated from vengeful spirits in that they exist to prey on humans, rather than to take revenge on humans. They do this because they pass on curses to others rather than be cursed themselves. The method of choice for youkai barring those with more spiritual requirements for sustenance is to kill and eat humans; those with more spiritual requirements still often kill humans (and do eat some part of the human; whether it be magical power, fear, or jealousy.) They are defined by consumption and exploitation; they have become the powerful, rather than the powerless, and enjoy this ability to exploit. Youkai who do not enjoy this kill themselves.

Yukari is a youkai; one whose interface with the world is quite physical. Just look at her. She is made of eyes and hands. Therefore, the method she utilizes for exploitation and consumption must thematically be quite physical as well. She happily sees herself as a youkai of this nature, too.

For all of the above reasons, it's completely thematically incoherent for Yukari Yakumo to not kill and eat humans with enthusiasm.

[hinacu-arts]

another completely random crossover idea that popped in my head out of nowhere

2012 ends up in riseverse, itself set 10 or so years after canon events. The Usagi mentioned is implied to be Yuichi or a version of a rottmnt specific Usagi

2012 TURTLES AND R!LEO ARE IN THE TURTLE TANK. R!LEO IS DRIVING THE NEWLY PICKED UP 2012 TURTLES TO HIS HOME

Mikey: *touching things he shouldn't be*

Donnie: *absolutely enthralled by all the tech in the tank*

Raph: *staring at R!Leo*

Leo: *attention split between a conversation with R!Leo and making sure Mikey doesnt explode them all*

TANK SPEAKERS START RINGING WITH A PHONECALL

R! Leo, answering the call: hey babe, you'll never guess what happened

Raph: *mouthing "babe?" at Leo*

Leo: *just as confused*

Phonecall: ummm Donnie built a sentient ice cream machine?

Raph: *mouthing "thats a dude!" at Leo*

Leo: *shushes Raph*

R! Leo: no, but dont give him ideas!

Phonecall: what happened?

R! Leo: alternate versions of me and my brothers are in this universe. They're so short I love it.

Phonecall: please send a picture I have to see this

R! Leo: i already did!

Mikey: when did you take our picture?

Phonecall: ohmigosh they're adorable. What are they, 15?

Raph: we're 17!

Phonecall: same thing. Who was that?

R! Leo: that's little Raph!

Raph: "LITTLE"!

R! Leo: everyone say hi!

Leo: umm, hi. Who are we speaking to?

R! Leo: oh! This is Usagi, my ex-boy-

Usagi: i'm his ex-boyfriend

Someone on the other end of the phonecall: i hate when they call each other that!

R! Leo and Usagi: it's true!

R! Leo, to the turtles: i got a promotion *winks*

2012: *confused glances to each other*

Donnie: uh, what does that mean?

R! Leo: i'm his husband!

Usagi: on your world! We're still fiances on mine.

Someone on the other side of the phonecall: AND THEY STILL CALL EACH OTHER BY THEIR LAST NAMES! ITS DISGUSTING

R! Leo: hmm, you're right. I guess we better switch last names babe

Usagi: nah, i like calling you "Hamato"

Phonecall: SEE ITS DISGUSTING!

Usagi: DONT YOU HAVE SOMEWHERE ELSE TO BE!

Raph, mesmerized by R!Leo's laidback back-and-forth: youre married to a human?

R! Leo: oh no, Usagi is a-

Usagi: Leo's a furry

R! Leo: i hate that Donnie taught you that word

Usagi: speaking of Donnie, have you noticed Kendra is his type?

R! Leo: Kendra? What do you mean? They're archenemies or something

Usagi: i want you to picture Donnie's type

R! Leo: okay?

Usagi: now picture Kendra

R! Leo: holy shit

Mikey, with his arm slung around Donnie as he pokes his face: who's Kendra

R! Leo: oh calm down lil Mike. Kendra would eat your Donnie for breakfast and then spit him back up. And i could tell right from the get go she's not your Donnie's type. She's psychopathic. Like my Donnie.

Usagi: which is Donne's type. And your dad's actually

R! Leo: huh?

Usagi: have you seriously never noticed Donnie and your dad have the same taste in women?

R! Leo: name one example

Usagi: your step-mom is tiny and batshit insane. Donnie's type is short and mean. Its basically the same thing

R! Leo: *incoherent noises* why are you so right! Fuck you!

Usagi: no we arent double married yet

R! Leo: i want a divorce!

Usagi, teasing: good luck with that. You know how much those cost?

R! Leo, same teasing tone: yeah, those really cost an arm and a leg

Usagi and R!Leo: *laughing*

Leo: i dont know whats happening right now

[anotherobeymeblog]

Which of the characters are the loudest in bed? 👀

I had to rewrite some of these parts three times because tumblr kept not saving the draft when I clicked "save draft" so forgive me if some of them sound a little clipped, I'm pretty annoyed about it lol

Loud

Mammon: Yeah, Mammon has absolutely no concept of volume control. Naturally, he's wildly embarrassed by this and will try to deny how loud he is even in between moans. It's pretty fun to tease him about this. It almost makes it worth all the times someone will bang on the door demanding you keep it down. Almost.

Diavolo: Idk what you expected. He sees no reason to try to hide what you're doing, so he doesn't bother keeping his voice down. And, tbh, I'm not convinced he could be quiet if he tried. This man has a big, booming voice and even his dirty talk sounds more like shouting. Barbatos isn't paid enough for this shit.

Solomon: Whore 💖 He's absolutely shameless, so you better hope no one else is in the same building as you when you fuck. Of course, if you ask him to try to be quiet, he'll happily make even more obnoxiously obscene noises just to annoy you.

Moderate

Leviathan: Levi will bite his lip raw to try to stifle his noises if you don't stop him. He's actually pretty quiet as far as like... decibels go, but his tone is so shrill, his voice carries much farther than it would otherwise. He sounds absolutely pathetic, and if you call him out for this, he will cry, but he will also cum on the spot.

Asmodeus: Okay, I know this is a hot take, but considering his vast uh. Experience, there's no way Asmo doesn't know how to adjust his volume for the situation. Much like everything else related to sex with Asmo, YMMV because he will try to shape himself into your ideal partner. However, if you do manage to get him to loosen up and stop trying to impress you, he naturally makes these clipped, high-pitched whines that are super cute, but not that loud.

Belphegor: So sex with Belphie can really be divided into two categories. Sometimes, it's slow, lazy sex where he's still half asleep and adorably clingy. In these cases, he's almost silent, with the only noises he's making being little sighs and incoherent mumbling that you think might be your name. But on the other hand, when he's in a particularly bratty mood and wants you to wreck his shit, it's a totally different story, and he will be spitting taunts at you even as the words keep getting cut off by choked moans.

Simeon: Simeon is prone to crying during sex and everyone else can fight me. He tries to maintain some semblance of dignity at first, but it never takes long before he falls apart and starts crying out freely.

Quiet

Lucifer: Yeah, the most you're getting from him is the occasional tremor in his voice. He's bad at showing vulnerability at the best of times, so you just have to get used to picking up on the way his mouth twists or his brow furrows, because you won't be getting any more obvious reactions than that. (Unless he's drunk, but that's another story altogether.)

Satan: Depending on his mood, the sounds he makes range from low growls to soft, breathy moans. Either way, it's gonna be pretty quiet, and you'd need to be within a couple feet of him to be able to hear them at all.

Beelzebub: If you're doing something particularly intense, you may be treated to some choked grunts, but otherwise, the only noises he really makes are his breath getting heavier and whispered praises that grow increasingly incoherent as he approaches his orgasm, at which point he seems to stop breathing altogether.

Barbatos: Barbatos makes these drawn-out, airy noises that are very cute, but almost inaudible if your faces aren't right up against each other. If you make it known that you want to hear him better, he won't get any louder, but instead will lean towards you to moan right in your ear.

[rottenraccoons]

Hello! I recently played the game and fell in love with it! The story so far, the premise of it, how the backgrounds and side characters and LI’s all work together art wise(at least in my opinion) and immersion isn’t ruined by a sudden change, the music oh goodness can I ramble about music!

Anyways, I have an NSFW ask if it’s alright? Personally, I get overwhelmed when feeling too much or there’s too much stimuli and, for lack of better phrase, lose my verbality. Things become too much and I lose my voice. How would the LI’s accommodate for losing speak, whether it be during sex or an emotional experience? (In short, be unable to vocalize a safe word) I know some “alternatives” that I’ve read about can be like snapping or tapping a certain pattern. I’m also asking because I adore the safe word system in game sooooo much, and am just. Well. Curious. On how a nonverbal safeword would be used (from a story pov, just to clarify just in case)

Thank you so much, nonny! ❤️ Please do ramble about the music, one of my favourite things in the world is pinging Cajsa to show her all the nice things folks are saying about her work!

As for your ask:

Francesco The idea of someone suddenly losing their voice is a little scary to him, so this is something he would want to be informed of beforehand, so he's prepared to adapt to his partner, should this happen.

(Of course, he's also thrilled to be able to make this happen in the first place)

Keir If rough play or pain isn't usually involved in bedroom antics, he'll probably just ask to be pinched or otherwise given an unmistakable sensation if things need to stop. But if that isn't gonna work, he's gonna wait some kind of agreed-upon signal or signals to keep communication moving smoothly. Preferably not something noise-based, given his own tendency to be noisy.

Oleander Frankly, someone being so overwhelmed by sex that they lose their voice is extremely hot to him! His goal in bed is to render his partner incoherent anyways. That said, safewords are very important and figuring out a good signal to make sure things stop when they need to is a very fulfilling challenge to him.

Cirrus This wouldn't be his first experience with a non-verbal partner. You mentioned tapping, which is one of the first options he would gravitate towards, as well as things like hand squeezing. Of course, sometimes it depends on the context!

During a scene where his partner has their hands tied up or are unable to use them for some reason, he might ask them to nod or shake their head.

Of course, this is risky. If he ever gets the feeling that communication isn't up to par, he'll stop the scene right away.

[reanimatedheart]

AHHH this is my first time asking something on here so am nervous sorry~

I’d love to know how our romancable companions would react to hyper expressive auDHD MC? You know, theatrical kind of manner, not really much of a filter in terms of what’s proper to ask or say, lots of stimming and incoherent noises. Very energetic but can get quiet and dissociate easily. (Totally not asking to self-insert better before working on fanarts haaaa haaa haaa)~

Also I need you to know how much I ADORE this game. The lore, the world-building, the characters and the choices that actually MATTER. THE WRITING! THE SOUNDTRACK AND THE ART AUUUUGH!!! It’s so good, it’s officially my newest hyperfixation. Thank you for making this piece of art, I’m buzzing and can’t wait for moooore! And the gnome scene really was hilarious, I was choking on air and saliva, xoxo

Thank you for the nice compliments! I'm so happy you like it. :D

This is an interesting question. I try to avoid specificity with the MC because I want people to be able to immerse themselves in them as much as possible, but I do have a lot of thoughts about this scenario.

Black would honestly find it refreshing. I don't think he's accepted it himself (he doesn't believe in therapy LOL), but I'm pretty sure he's autistic. Esp if the MC is very blunt or makes their thoughts and boundaries very clear. Black is the type of person that misses a lot of social cues, and people make fun of him for it. He takes things people say very seriously. If the MC just tells him their thoughts, he'll remember them and act accordingly. And I think this would make the MC feel safe too, because they would feel like he's not playing games with them.

This scenario is interesting with Crux in particular. They aren't in the game yet, but actually, his bio dad and favorite little sister are like this, and he would be able to tell immediately. He won't make a big deal out of it, but he'll be adjusting around the MC. Take them to quieter places, make sure their seat is comfortable, etc. The MC will just find this out that oh, he's always playing obnoxiously loud music in the car and smoking, but he never does it around them.

I also think in a weird way, he'd be way more honest around the MC, but he won't let them know he is. Like Crux is the type of person that keeps his real feelings and thoughts close to his sleeve, because he has a whole complex about being "weird" in ways he can't control, so it's made him a bit of a liar. But if it's the MC, he'd just say his real feelings, because he suspects they won't judge him for it.

Vincenzo is complicated because he is very mentally ill and neurodivergent, but for most of his life, he was in an All Boy's Catholic Boarding School. He was bullied for being weak, weird, effeminate, etc. If he notices these traits in MC, he'll degrade them for it, and in a fucked up way, see this humiliation ritual as actually beneficial to MC, because it would teach the MC not to show strangers their neck.

But I feel like, if the MC gets closer to him, that he'd be able to face aspects of himself that he's tried to suffocate for years, and it would be liberating to him.

[slutty-cherry]

𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒆 ‎·｡˚✦.˳꙳

cw: fingering, name calling (darling, baby, princess), praise, vaginal penetration, smut, skinny dipping, intended lowercase wc: 586 scenario: boyfriend eren takes you out on a beach date (incoherent screaming noises)

i kin all the eren hoes out there mwah

bf!eren would ask you what you'd be wearing the next day, greatly in anticipation of the date he planned, constantly pestering you about what bikini you'd be wearing.

bf!eren on his knees, practically salivating at the sight of you in a blue bikini, matching his trunks.

bf!eren pushing his fingers in you for a third time with your bikini on. "fuck princess gonna come on my fingers again?" he whispers as you moan, finishing on his hands.

bf!eren licking his fingers clean, finally deciding to start off the date with a rather...enjoyable "pre-date"

bf!eren setting up the blanket and umbrella for you in the sand in a nice and quiet place, mindful of your dislike towards crowds.

bf!eren holding your hand and running to the ocean, splashing you with the salty water and clicking candid pictures of you and putting them as his wallpaper.

bf!eren hoisting you up on his shoulders after you asked him how the weather was 'up there'. "i don't know sweetheart...how 'bout you tell me?" he smirked as he ran into the ocean as you yelled 'charge!!' to no apparent enemy, clutching on to his face for dear life, breathless from laughter.

bf!eren dropping you into the ocean, just to pick you up bridal style. "am i strong or am i strong?" he winks, flexing his biceps as you giggle out a curse, poking his bulging bicep.

bf!eren taking you to a cute café and simply staring at you as you gobble down the food. "eat as much as you like. i cant stop staring at you...you look adorable," he rambles as you turn red.

bf!eren throwing you across the shoulders, and heading back to the beach, refusing to let you pay.

bf!eren not letting go of your hand as you collect seashells on the shore, staring at your ass while you bend to pick them up.

bf!eren laying on your lap as you played with his hair, watching the beautiful sunset.

bf!eren blushing like crazy when you clicked pictures of him in the golden hour, making it your wallpaper.

bf!eren not taking his eyes off of you as you rambled on about some new show you've been hooked on. "no no, i'm not distracted...keep going princess," he chuckles absent mindedly while staring at your lips.

bf!eren suggesting a late night skinny dip in the ocean, because of the lack of people, and taking off his trunks while signalling you to follow suit.

bf!eren not being able to take his eyes off of you as he takes in the sight of your body glistening in the moonlight, water dripping from your hair to your shoulders. "fuck baby i can never get tired of looking at you...damn...," he whispered while running his hands around your back pulling you in for a kiss.

bf!eren thrusting in and out of you on the blanket as you mutter a string of curses. "that's right baby...fuck you're so tight, princess," he said between moans as he massaged your breasts with his free hand. "pretty pussy fits me like a fuckin' glove, huh, princess?" he grunts as his thrusts get sloppier, and your moans get louder.

bf!eren moaning as you come on his cock, shuddering, as he says, breathlessly, "such a fucking good girl for me...pound you in the shape of my cock, havent i, love? ruined you for everybody else, huh? ah fuck..." as he finishes inside you .

bf!eren taking out the wet wipes and saying "good girl," as he kisses your forehead before cleaning you up.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟

(a.n: as a touch starved, sleep deprived slut, my visions have been wild. i miss him)

[novankenn]

Nora in : Tea with Jaune's family... Saphron

It took Nora another three days to get the burning need with in her under control... and it had exhausted her to the point of collapse, which earned her a trip to the infirmary. Now confined to bed, and being waited on by Jaune, Nora had time to reflect on those two encounters.

She really did like Jaune, she just wasn't sure if it was a "forever-forever" type of like-like. Though, after getting dosed twice with aphrodisiacs, she was looking at things slightly differently. Jaune was a catch, and just being around him, she knew he would probably make a good father... and of course if they did have kids they would be ultra...

Nora: WHAT am I thinking?!? (Shakes her head) WHY am I thinking like that?!?

It was then Jaune entered the room with a tray of food for her.

Jaune: Hey. How are you feeling?

Nora: Hey. Still tired. What did you bring me?

Jaune: Nothing much, just a couple turkey sandwiches, and some fruit punch. I'll just put them on your night table.

Nora: Thank you.

Jaune: Are you going to be okay for a little bit? I can call off my session with Pyrrha if...

Nora: I'll be fine. You get your training in, and I'll get some rest.

Jaune: (Moves up to her and gently kisses her forehead) Remind me to take you somewhere nice once you feel better.

Nora: Count on it.

Shortly after Jaune left, Nora, snuggled down into her blankets and drifted off to sleep.

????: Oh, these are delicious! No wonder Jaune is bulking up so well. All that training and good food! What do you think, Adrian?

Adrian: (Incoherent baby noises)

Nora: Wait? What?

????: I'm sorry, I hope we didn't wake you.

Nora opens her eyes and instantly sits ramrod straight. She was back in that room again. Looking to her left she sees him, Bob the Beowulf and his silver serving tray. Slowly, she moves her head to find an adorable toddler seated on the lap of a young blond woman, who was definitely related to Jaune.

Saphron: Hi, Nora. It's a pleasure to finally met you. I'm Jaune's sister Saphron Cotta-Arc, and this little bundle of joy is Jaune's nephew Adrian. Say hi Adrian.

Adrian: (Baby noises)

Nora: H... hi.

Saphron: So, I KNOW you've met granny and mom, and I would like to take this moment to apologize for their behaviour. They did the same to my wife just after we started dating.

Nora: Seriously?

Saphron: Yes. How do I put it... they both take the continuation of the Arc line very seriously.

Nora: They're baby crazy.

Saphron: That too.

Nora: Are you?

Saphron: No, no, I'm just here to say hi, introduce you to this little guy.

Nora: So no (eyes the tea cups on Bob's tray) funny business with the tea.

Saphron: Heavens no.

Nora: That's a relief. (Nora starts to eye Adrian, an urge to hold him building with in her.)

Saphron: Would you like to hold him?

Nora: I...

Saphron: It's okay. He hasn't been fusing, so he should be fine. So, would you?

Nora: I... please?

Saphron rose from her seat and brought Adrian to Nora. While supporting Adrian on her hip, she used her free hand to guide Nora into a better position, before gently setting the youngest of the Arc clan in Nora's arms.

Adrian: (Content Baby Noises)

Saphron: You're a natural.

Nora: Huh?

Saphron: (Leans in and whispers into Nora's ear) You're a natural with babies. You'll make a great mom... so strong and full of love...

Nora: I...

Saphron: (Still whispering in Nora's ear, while gently touching her shoulders from behind) Doesn't he just make your heart want to burst?

Nora: I...

Saphron: (Whispering) Stop fighting it... Nora. I can see it in your eyes.

Nora: See?

Saphron: (Whispering) You want one, I would guess you want more than one child, don't you?

Nora: I... what?

Saphron: We have a VERY large family... you could be part of it... you could help it grow...

Nora: ...

Saphron: Come to momma, my big boy.

Saphron moved from behind Nora and effortlessly scooped Adrian back up. She turned to face the stunned Nora, a mischievous smile on her face.

Saphron: It has been a pleasure to met you, Nora, and I do hope you come to visit during the holidays. But it is this little guy's nap time, so I must be off.

Nora:...

Saphron: (Stops just before exiting through one of the many doors.) Oh, and be a dear, and finish your tea. It would be a shame for it to go to waste.

Nora robotically nodded and took the cup offered by Bob and drowned it in a single gulp. A few minutes after Saphron and Adrian left, he eyes grew heavy and she nodded off. He woke with a start a moment later, finding herself once again in JNPR's dorm, with all her teammates fast asleep. She glanced at her nightstand, seeing only the plastic food tray Jaune had brought her earlier, though one of the sandwiches was gone...

Nora: (Whispering) What the...

Slowly, she reached up to rub her face, and was assaulted with the scent of fresh baby powder. Her eyes grew wide, as Saphron's words filtered back to the fore of her mind, and a familiar churning sensation began to build with in her again. She turned to look at her sleeping boy-friend, and the heat grew. Biting her lip, she took several deep breaths to regain control of herself.

Nora: (Breathing heavily through her nose as she whispers) Once I get over this newest batch... you and I need to talk, Jaune.

As she tried to settle back down and get back to sleep, Saphron's words again started to circle about in her head, and with a final look at Jaune before she forced herself to roll over and away from him...

Nora: (Whispering) We would have adorable... no, no, no. Stop it Nora. Just stop.

(Master List)

[intheorangebedroom]

Pleased to meet you, chapter 17

Summary: You're going back to Paris. There's only one thing left for you to do, here: break up with Benny. Meanwhile, Frankie tries to find a way to love you that doesn't mean letting you go.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Ok orange besties, we're in the endgame (yes I've always wanted to say that). Thank you to everyone who's still here 🧡 It's been a hot minute, and I'm so very sorry. Some wonderful, brilliant, beautiful human beings helped me. I want to humbly thank them. @frannyzooey beta read this chapter, which is a very dull and formal way to express how much she's improved (my entire life) it with her kindness, goddess's brain and generosity. Kelli my love, you know, you know everything 🧡 (I adore you). @the-ginger-hedge-witch immediately "unblocked" me when I couldn't even make out my own characters' thoughts because I'm dumb and she's a genius... Ren ma Reine, you are truly my Queen, I love you and admire you so damn much and I miss your voice and your hugs like a ghost limb 🧡 @dreamymyrrh made sure I wouldn't give up. You brilliant little devil you, I love you to pieces, you make my life brighter every day, I'm just the luckiest. You deserve the world and you will get it 🧡

Word count: 6.9k

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Chapter 17: Auf Achse

“This is a Brooklyn bound L train. Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”

Frankie exits the train on the Union Square platform in a brooding rush. He barely falters when his left shoulder collides with another passenger. The man steps into the car hurling incoherent slurs that don't reach his ears, the giant overhead rotor fan annihilating all surrounding noises and Frankie remains unfazed, trapped within the din of his own mind. 

Ducking his head to avoid the stale air fanned into his face, and under the familiar shelter provided by the brim of his cap, he moves his body forward amid the roiling motion of his thoughts. 

He has seldom known peace, never experienced quiet, and when he has, it was only too briefly. In the orange, in the ocean. But the storm has picked up speed since April, hitting the walls of his skull, and the same vision resurfaces above the mess, relentless and without mercy: you, disappearing inside your red brick building without a look back for him.

As you laid naked on top of him, your sweet face resting in the palm of his hand, he had wanted to believe it. That the disrupted promise for a bright future together had been restored. Yet you all but ran away from him. 

It’s Thursday again, the middle of the afternoon. The connection to the 6 train is already crowded, tourists and kids in uniform teeming around him in tight clusters, but he doesn’t register any of it, walking on autopilot, with the looming threat of your resentment hovering in and out of focus in his overworked brain. 

Should he have told you back in his car, when you had questioned him about that damn 15 year gap, about the true meaning of his scar? In Will’s kitchen? Back in the bar? When is the start? 

Striding down the tiled corridors is downright brutal, each and every muscle in his sore body battling his will to turn around and hurry back to you, to tuck your body away against his chest underneath his clothes and your face into the crook of his neck and explain. Explain in words that are not his because his words have failed him. And you. 

No te vayas por una hora porque entonces… 

Borrowed words he struggles to remember, would they make any difference?

Truth is, he betrayed you long ago. When he doubted you, when he gave way to anger and rage and easy, degrading escapes. 

I never stopped waiting, this you have to understand. 

You never ran away from him, not really. You ran away for him. 

Beyond his pain, yours claws at his heart, threatening his precarious balance, like a hindered scream catching at his throat and constricting his chest. He can’t think of you alone, emptily gazing out your window like a desolate figure in a Hopper painting. Can’t live with the fact that he’s the reason you finally stopped waiting. 

What could have he said? Were there any words that would have held the power to bend your mind and turn you around, erase your guilt and keep you to him? Why didn’t he try harder?

I don’t fucking care.

Tilting up his head, he finds himself sitting on the hard plastic bench of the 6 train. Across the central aisle, a small boy propped on his father’s lap is staring at him, the bottom half of his face smeared in apple sauce. The dried flakes of yellow compote shape a beard around his plump lips, and his wide, intrigued eyes make him look old beyond his years.

Frankie’s eyes flick upward to the map, where the blinking dot reminds him to get out at the next stop.

He resurfaces on Bleecker St, to an unexpected cool breeze, and tries to let it clear his mind so he will be able to present his sister with an intelligible account of the situation.

Growing up in the Morales household meant evolving in a crowded, shape-shifting space ; the small two-bedroom apartment serving as a workshop for Eva’s sewing business. In the cramped living-room, numerous piles of seemingly orderless clothes and fabric laid in what felt like an endless rotation, on top of beaten pieces of furniture that was bought at garage sales or found on the curb. For the two siblings, lounging on the couch to watch a movie or sitting at the table to do their homework meant having to move a heap of clothes that would invariably crumble to the floor a few minutes later. Only Eva seemed able to balance the precarious stacks that earned her a living and provided for her children.

Frankie rapidly became skilled at fixing just about anything, from a chest drawer to a toaster, because it was in his answer-seeking nature and because it gave him a sense of purpose. Izzy began bringing money home when she was fifteen, tutoring kids and baby-sitting young children from posh neighbourhoods, but both her and Eva denied Frankie when he expressed his intention to get an after-school part-time job. It had little or nothing to do with the fact that he was a boy, but rather the two Morales women were determined to clear the path that would lead him to an airport runway. 

Having been brought up in a space intended for two people and shared by four, as they alternately navigated and evaded their father’s ghost, as a result, Izzy and Frankie curated sparsely furnished, minimally decorated homes. 

The transient soldier’s path Frankie walked for most of his life made his relative material asceticism a practical choice and still, two years after settling down, it’s reflected in his utilitarian interior, where the only items in surplus are books. 

Similarly, Izzy’s place, on the top floor of a Mott Street brick building, doesn’t reflect the social status to which she has risen. Childless by choice and conviction, Izzy is rarely single, but prefers to live alone, and her comfortable income could afford her much more than the pricey location she has chosen to live in, the only luxury she indulges in. 

Throughout the years, her place has become as close to a family home as Frankie’s fragmented life could have had him hope for. The tastefully arranged apartment is where he spent his leaves and tended to his wounds, both tangible and the ones that wouldn’t heal. The walls, adorned with modern and old black and white prints, watched over his restless nights as he laid curled up on the opening sofa, fresh off the Army, sleep eluding him. Where his sister admonished his excesses without ever speaking a word, and forgave him everything speaking too many, always providing practical ways out along with unwavering love and support. 

So, quite naturally, it is where his steps take him now, because a phone conversation wouldn’t cut through the fog. 

When she opens her door, Izzy’s taken aback by her brother’s drawn features, even though the tension in his voice earlier on the phone had cued her in as to what to expect. 

“Damn, you look like shit, hermanito,” she whispers. “¿Qué te pasa?”

Frankie sighs as deeply as his constricted chest will allow, fails to look her in the eyes and snaps, “Yea, can I get in, first?”

She steps to the side and lets him in, and as Frankie walks past her and into the bright living-room, she scrunches her nose. 

“When was the last time you showered?”

The comment earns her a roguish look but he doesn’t argue with it. He has yet to wash you off his skin, or change the denim shirt he put on to drive you back.

Standing by the door, her left hand still grasping the doorknob, she surveys his tall, dark frame standing out in the centre of the white room, and before he can sit, she says with unusual softness, “The hat.”

Pausing imperceptibly, he removes his cap and swivels around to place it on the nearby oak dining table. They stand still in the afternoon light, with distant street noises from the world that exists outside the narrow windows dwarfing time and space. 

“¿Querés un mate?”

 “Sure.” 

Speaking feels physically insurmountable. He has to engage all his muscles, reach for air at the very end of his lungs. 

When Izzy comes out of the small kitchen, Frankie’s in a leather armchair with tubular iron armrests, and rubbing his clammy palms over his jeans. She places two round cups with metallic straws on the dark kidney coffee table and sits on the edge of the off-white couch, doing her very best to conceal the concern that reads plainly on her open face. 

“You haven’t been using ag-“ she starts, but stops short when her brother looks her straight in the eyes with a warning on his face, lips pinched, jaw clenched. 

“I’m clean, Izzy,” he grumbles.

“No because if you are-” she trails off, and her uncharacteristic hesitancy drums on his nerves.

Frankie knows his sister can listen. She’s been his sole confidant for over forty years. The only living soul who knows of what happened to you and him in the orange bedroom. She just needs a little reminder.

“I’m gonna tell you everything, Izzy. Just let me talk, alright?” he tries, his neck strained around the words to keep his tone down.

She nods and smooths down the wrinkles of her blouse. 

“Ok,” he starts, and the waver in his voice surprises them both, “I don’t know if you remember… the girl…“

How the hell does he explain that? Is he supposed to say your name?

“The French girl?” she asks. “The one who got away?”

The one who got away. 

Izzy’s eyes have grown as wide as her glasses, but her demeanour has shifted, no longer wary. Frankie’s jaw unclenches for the first time since you’ve left him yesterday, surprise untangling his brow for a fleeting second. Arms crossed on his chest, he leans back into the leather back of the chair, searching her dark eyes. 

“Go ahead, hermanito,” she encourages, “I’m listening.”

He unfolds his arms. Sits up straight. Draws in one last breath. 

Then, he jumps. 

The first words are the most difficult, the ones that define your relationship to his friend, but once he spits them out, the rest freely flows, and he talks. He talks more than he ever has, with Izzy or Santiago or William, using words he can’t recall ever pronouncing before, like longing and certainty and craving and peacefulness, “her skin, Izzy, her fucking skin,” and to his attentive sister, he bares it all. 

The years spent losing himself when he couldn’t find you, regrets, remorse, errors and shame. The blind wildfire of his hatred when you walked back into his life with another man, with this other man. How you gently extinguished the blaze without so much as a word. How it only took five encounters, stretched over the course of three months, before you found yourselves coming apart around each other again. How you ran from him, in the end, and how he’d been powerless to hold you back. 

How he didn’t even try. 

That you were going home and how far away that meant, just so you could protect a friendship he wasn’t even sure could be saved. 

What he sees play across Izzy’s face doesn’t reflect any of the ugly feelings throbbing in his chest. There’s understanding in her eyes, and hope in her smile; relief in her posture. For Isolda Morales remembers what Francisco Jr cannot: the ashen neon light of a military hospital room, and the lean, lifeless figure of her brother lying under a coarse sheet that looked like a shroud. She remembers the blood-stained dressing wrapped around his waist. She remembers his face, gleaming a waxy yellow as the morphine flooded his system, and his wistful realisation, spoken around a drug-heavy tongue, “if I die now, she will never even know.”

Izzy could have cursed your name, then, Gabrielle, but for the second time in her lifetime, and for her baby brother’s sake, she walked her mother’s path, and formulated a silent prayer. 

For the lost lovers to be reunited. 

When her brother falls silent, Izzy feels like herself again. 

“I knew you to be more persistent, Francisco,” she says sternly.

The statement hits him square in the chest with lethal precision. The soft leather creaks in protest when he leans back into the armchair, scrutinizing his sister’s face. 

“I don’t have much latitude, here,” he argues. “If she wants to go–”

“You’re not really considering letting her go?” she cuts him with ill-concealed impatience.

“I can’t hold her back, Izzy. She’s a free woman,” he says, and he hates that it sounds like an apology.

Izzy lunges forward, reaching for her untouched cup of mate. She takes a long, slow sip, mulling over her next words while Frankie waits, running his hand over his mouth, bracing himself.

“Why are you here?” she asks eventually, replacing the cup on its glass coaster. When he doesn’t answer, she presses further. “You’ve never been one to seek comfort, and I can’t imagine you coming here so I can give you a sisterly pat on the back and tell you everything’s gonna be alright. Nothing will, by the way. So what is it that you want from me? Why did you come?”

He can see it. See it so clearly. The shame on your face the first time he touched your breasts and then your relieved abandon when he came on your skin after only one night together. He remembers how this victory made him feel, the single most meaningful thing he could ever achieve. How you kept saying “sorry,” how you still say “please,” consistently moving through life as if you take up too much space. 

“I want her, Izzy. I want to be with her. Take care of her,” he says, a nod punctuating each affirmation. “But I can’t coerce her into choosing me, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” he continues, his blood brought to a simmering level by the uncomfortable truth in her words, by the paralysing contradiction in his. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Frankie! She is choosing you. It’s herself she’s not choosing, here.”

Frankie flinches, trying to swallow the handful of pins and needles she just shoved down his throat. 

“Is that what it is?” she asks in a softer tone. “You think getting her to stay would make you, what, selfish? A bad man? Because it would fuck things up with the guys? Are you afraid that she would despise you for that?”

Bending forward, he rests his elbows on his lap, his fingernail worrying at the little tattoo on his left thumb. Izzy’s eyes rapidly flick down from his hands to his tense face, in time to see him mutely nod his agreement, his gaze floorward.  

“I know,” he starts, his voice hoarse and so quiet she has to lean forward not to miss a word, “I know that if I’m with her… if she’s mine… I could fix it.”

“Are you talking about yourself or the group’s dynamics?” Izzy asks without malice.   

Her. I’m talking about her. She’s the only one that matters. 

The look on his face is one of pleading and pain, eyes strained on his hands where he presses a finger onto the green mark, seeking focus through the discomfort.

“Frankie, look at me.”

Frankie finally lifts his head and finds her dark, lively eyes. They’re the same as his. Identical, yet so different. 

“I think that’s what you came for. To hear me tell you to fight for yourself, for once.” She pauses to let it sink in. “It’s ok to fight for what you want. I know you’ve always put everyone else’s needs first, because you’re a good man, Francisco. But you can’t miss that shot. You’ve been so lucky. Twice over. I can’t say I’ve ever felt the way you do.”

“You had it pretty bad for Paula,” he mutters.

“True,” she agrees. “But I left, in the end.”

“What happened with that?”

“I think I was too independent. And she wanted kids. Listen, we’re not talking about me, here,” she shrugs away the topic with the back of her hand. “Hermanito, you’ll never be happy without her. You are right. You know you are. Go get your girl. The way you talk about her, it sounds like she needs you just as bad as you need her. You can make everything right after, later. Do whatever it takes to convince her. You’ve loved her forever.”

His mouth is parched but he’s still denying himself the drink that would soothe his throat, and it’s a hard swallow before he can articulate his next words. 

“Fuck, Izzy, that’s all I ever want. To keep her safe.” 

In the breast pocket of his shirt, a muffled buzzing signals an incoming text.

He pulls his phone out hastily, hoping to see your name lighting up the screen. What he reads instead draws a hissed curse from his tight lips and they dip downward, pulled by his corded neck. 

“Fuck.”

“¿Quién es?” 

“Ben. Wants to meet at the bar. Now.”

—

Pope arrives first, and when he steps into the bar, it’s as though the dim lights instantly grow brighter. 

A thoughtful, personal greeting to everyone, from the regulars to the bartender, and their faces lighten up too, under the glow of his attention. 

He orders beers for the five of them and leisurely struts over to their usual table, securing the spot before larger parties of the early evening start pouring in. Taking his favourite seat on the left, he waits for the bartender to bring over their drinks. Service at the table is a preferential treatment only Tom and him are ever granted. 

The Millers come in shortly after, and Pope’s easy smile drops at the sight of the youngest man, who’s clearly missing more than a couple hours of sleep. Who, on closer observation, might have been crying. 

He stands up to welcome them with a brotherly embrace, but he has to wait to ask his many questions. The glasses and ice-cold pitcher are brought in, and when Fish arrives next, Pope straightens up in his seat. His gaze intensifies, strained on the two men sitting side by side to his right around the large wooden table. The blond and the dark-haired. There’s something at play here, something he’s been missing, and his increased attention darkens his handsome features.  

“Damn, when I got your text I thought we would be celebrating something. What’s going on, guys?” The corner of his lips curls up with a charming smile, but his stare is cold, his eyes working on reading the scene. 

So far unusually quiet, Benny’s about to speak when his brother lays a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s wait for Redfly,” he suggests in a firm tone, “I don’t think you wanna have to repeat that twice.”

Frankie slowly downs half his glass in long, uninterrupted gulps. He knows his quietness to be suspicious. If Benny has news that requires to be delivered in such an exceptional setting, and that he hasn’t heard of already, he should at least express concern or curiosity. But Benny's blotched face and his fraternal handshake told him everything he needs to know. 

You carried out your plan and took the blow so he could walk out of this unscathed. 

It’s going to take more than a beer to take off the edge. 

Alone yet undeterred in his attempt to maintain the illusion of a friendly gathering, Pope proceeds to fill the uneasy silence with innocuous small talk.

Frankie’s eyes meet Will’s steely gaze for the briefest moment and gratitude flares in his chest for his sensible advice. The feeling doesn’t last, however, taken down by guilt, and shame. The man dropped you on his threshold, knowing enough about the history between you to figure out what could ensue.  

When Redfly eventually shows up and takes his seat, the overhanging tension cranks up until Benny’s baritone breaks like thunder over the five of them. Unable to contain himself any longer, his account of your breakup, that he never names as such, spills out of him in an endless, vivacious stream with that larger than life petulance that’s always tugged at Frankie’s heartstrings. Only today, everything bites at his nerves and erodes his restraint, from the emotion brimming under the surface of Benny’s messy narrative to Pope’s genuine look of surprise and Redfly’s unfazed reaction.

Exhaustion comes in waves, and he has just enough control left in him to maintain a white knuckled grasp around his glass and not resort to the telling rubbing of the little target inked on his skin. 

Looking at his friend’s hunched posture and wet eyes proves itself impossible, but more than once his gaze lingers on Will’s face, in a vain attempt to read the man’s thoughts. There’s nothing to see there, nothing to grasp, and suddenly an alarming doubt has him uncomfortably shifting in his seat: what does he let on? Ducking his head, he finds the shelter of his cap brim. 

His heart thumps louder than Benny’s voice at what’s missing from his story. What did you feel? What did you look like? What were you wearing? Did you cry? Did you brush a strand of hair off his forehead like he watched you doing once? Did you cup his face, give him one last kiss? Did you fuck one last time?

Benny marks a pause, which leaves space for Pope and Redfly to express their sympathy. Frankie registers plainly the lack of sincerity in Redfly’s short sentence, and he’s reminded of that very first night, when you were introduced to the group and had the audacity to tell him off. He had wondered, no, hoped, truly, that you had done so on his account. He has his answer now. Most of the things you’ve ever done have been either because or for him. 

Why hadn’t he said something, then? Anything. “We’ve met before,” simple, non-committal. In retrospect, this had been the biggest mistake of all. There might have been a chance to salvage something from this wreck if he had spoken there and then, instead of letting his friend proudly parade you in front of everyone. But he’d been too consumed by anger to think straight. Anger and jealousy. And something else. Your skin. The mad beating of your heart under the pulse point of your neck. Had you shown him that piece of paper then, he might have fucked you on the table. 

You hadn’t said anything either. You looked as if you’d seen death itself, which he mistook for an admission of guilt. In truth you had instantly fathomed the depth of the mess you two were in. Clever, clever girl.

In the end, your tacit, instinctual agreement over your conjoint secret spoke of the intensity of your feelings. Unescapable. And everlasting. 

“Shit Benny, I’m really sorry. That’s tough,” Pope says for the third time. “When did she say she was leaving?”

“I don’t know, man, and I don’t care cause it’s not happening,” Benny shoots back, shaking his head left and right like a scared kid. 

Will tuts and when he speaks, his tone suggests they’ve already been over that a hundred times. “Come on buddy, you know she does what she—“ 

“The hell she does!” he all but shouts. 

Under the brim of his cap, Frankie clenches his eyes, your voice on loop in his mind, “he’s your best friend…” He’s painfully aware that he has yet to say something, anything. 

“Did she explain why she’s going back to Paris?” he eventually asks under his breath. 

“I don’t know, something about her boss offering back her former position,” Benny answers dismissively.

“That boss a man, by any chance?” Redfly snarls. 

“Jesus, man,” Will breathes out. 

All of a sudden, the situation feels uncomfortably familiar. The stench of gasoline fills up his nostrils and cold sweat breaks out along his spine. Questionable orders and deflected responsibility. Frankie’s gaze moves up to focus on Tom and it’s as though he sees the man, their undisputed leader, for the very first time. Flawed, sad, and bitter.

“Look,” Pope starts, another attempt to ease the heavy atmosphere, “Yovanna likes her, and she has a pretty good bullshit radar. Maybe it’s just that. Maybe she’s really just homesick, maybe she does need to go back.“

“Yeah, maybe it’s this, or maybe it’s that,” Tom persists.

Pope raises an eyebrow at the comment. Crossing his arms over his chest, he tilts his chin up to address Will. “You know her the best. After Benny, I mean. She didn’t tell you anything?”

Will sits up straight, unfurling his sturdy frame. “Talks about Paris all the time. She’s homesick, alright,” he confirms. 

“She is,” Frankie whispers. 

The words slip out of him before he can hold them. All eyes turn to him, save for Tom’s, who slaps his palm on the table and starts rambling. 

“And that’s just the French for you, guys. A bunch of double-faced, unreliable people. Lazy, always fucking protesting something, never falling in line…”

“Ok, we get it,” Will grunts.

“No I mean, let that be a lesson to you, Benny. Because she really just said ‘it’s not you it’s me’ and dumped you for–”

“Hey, here’s an idea for you, Tom.”

The air stills around the five men, wrapped around the anger in Frankie’s commanding tone. 

“Fish, easy, man,” Will warns with a tilt of his head, but Frankie’s already raising up to his feet, right fist resting knuckle down on top of the table, squaring up with his former commanding officer who’s staring back at him, dumbfounded.

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up?” 

Hushed conversations fade around them; most of the room turning its attention to their group. 

His voice picks up in intensity as he speaks. “You don’t know anything about her, or where she’s from, or why she did what she did– in fact, you know jack shit, so why don’t you shut your mouth, for once, because if you don’t I swear I’ll make you.”

Tom is about to answer when Pope lifts his hands in the air, palms outward. 

“Alright, what the hell is going on, here, guys?”

“Yeah, what the hell is going on, Fish?” Benny asks, standing up. 

Frankie turns to face his friend and something flickers in his eyes. Almost regret, though not quite an apology, but rather a suppressed threat that twists his lips. In his peripheral vision, Will drops his head with a heavy sigh. 

“Did you fuck my girl, Fish?” Benny quietly asks, a lingering doubt in his tone. 

Frankie’s lived long enough to know this is the pivotal point of his adult life, and in his head, an image surfaces. The waves of the Pacific Ocean. 

Raising a pointing index at the tall man, he licks his lips and slowly answers. 

“She is not your girl.”

He only has time to register Tom’s sniggering snort before Ben’s fist collides with his face. A sharp pain blurs his vision and the violence of the blow sends his cap flying across the room. The back of his knees hit the chair and he topples backward in a loud clatter. 

An instant uproar bursts around them. Frankie tries to sit up but Ben is on him before he can move, pinning him down to the floor in a straddle, his shirt clutched in his fist. Frankie tries shoving him back but there’s no fighting his strength and he takes the second punch; the back of his head hitting the hardwood floor with an ominous thud and the skin over his cheekbone breaking under the impact of Ben’s knuckles.

A piercing, ringing noise fills his ears, drowning out the other men’s voices along with Ben’s curses, and a surge of blind rage washes over him. He strikes Ben once, twice in rapid succession under the sternum, the sound of his own grunts splitting his skull and Ben collapses on top of him with a groan, warm breath fanning the side of his face. Frankie can’t breathe, crushed under the weight, but it’s lifted off his chest immediately.

Clutching his brother by the collar of his t-shirt and the waist of his jeans, Will pulls him off Frankie and away before he has a chance to dive in again. Frankie’s ready, getting up off the floor, Pope sliding both hands under his arms to hold him back, but Frankie’s voice is heavy with unreleased anger when he shouts, “It’s fine! I’m fine!” 

In the dim bar, several people have stood up to get a better view of the commotion. 

Shoulders heaving, he pushes Pope away, ready to counter or attack, but Will has both hands on his brother’s chest and is holding him back. 

“Get him out of here!” he commands Pope, his words barely audible under Ben’s string of insults. 

It’s a beat before Pope is able to snap out of it, his deep frown and curled lips betraying his horror. He turns to Frankie, who is still standing a few feet from the two brothers with his fists clenched and bared teeth, feet planted firmly on the ground and seemingly ready to launch his body forward. Pope comes closer to drag him toward the exit, a splayed hand on his shoulders forcing him backwards, a low rumble of “Come on, man, let’s go,” as if he were attempting to tame a wild beast.

Frankie catches sight of Tom, who hasn’t moved from his seat, beer in hand, staring him down with contempt. 

“Go fuck yourself, Tom,” he coldly throws in his direction, but it’s Ben who answers. 

“You go fuck yourself, man! I fucking trusted you!”

“Pope! Out!” Will shouts.

Before Pope has time to react, Frankie shrugs off his hands and takes a step forward. Ben stills under his brother’s hold, observing his moves, slow and deliberate as he bends down to pick his hat off the floor. 

He stands up, and the two men glare at each other one last time.

“She was never yours,” he quietly states, before Pope gives him a hard push and they both disappear through the door. 

Out in the street, the brutal daylight has him squinting. He winces at the pain in his cheek, letting Pope usher him toward his car, with a hand on his back to make sure he complies. 

Once in the car, Pope doesn’t wait to start the ignition, forcing his way into the rush hour traffic, and they drive in silence for a while. Frankie’s eyes are trained on the windshield, his breathing evening out slowly, both hands braced on his knees. Adrenaline still pumping high through his system, he can’t bring himself to risk a glance at his friend’s face, knowing he can’t confront the disappointment he knows he’ll find there. 

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck, man? ¿Qué pasó? ¿Qué has hecho?” Pope bursts out vehemently. 

Frankie sighs in frustration; he’s not telling this story again, not today, not now. 

“I haven’t done anything wrong, Santiago, ok? It’s fucking bad luck if–”

“Bad luck? Really, Frankie, bad luck? Your fucking face is bleeding! You served together for ten years! The man saved your life!”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t thought about it?” his voice raises to a near breaking point. “Gabrielle and I, we met– fifteen fucking years ago, ok? She was never his. To me, she’s everything. I lost her once, I’m not losing her again. That’s it, that’s what’s happening.”

The cab falls quiet again. The car stops at a red light and Santiago pivots in his seat, trying to catch Frankie’s distant gaze, and his dark eyes soften. 

“Why did you never tell me? I would have listened,” he says. 

“I know.” 

He wants to explain. And he hopes that one day he will get the chance. His silence didn’t spring from lack of trust, but from lack of faith. From the unexplainable absence that left him broken. But right now his jaw is too tightly clenched to articulate the intricate feeling, and his tongue too heavy with the bitter taste of loss that is only too familiar to him. 

“Makes sense, though,” Santiago continues. 

“What?” he asks with a dry mouth, eyes to his knees. 

“You. Missing someone. All these years. I think I always assumed it was your parents, but with all the compulsive fucking I should have guessed it was a girl.” 

Frankie doesn’t answer. Santi’s offering open-minded understanding, just like he always has. It might be just who he is. Or it might be that Frankie is right in his gut feeling: he can fix it. 

The grey sedan in front of them starts moving, and Santiago activates the right-turn signal.

“Where are you going?” Frankie asks.

“Your place, where you wanna go?” 

“No, leave me at the corner of Seaview and County. You need to turn around.” 

“What’s there?” Santi frowns. “Her place? You really serious about this?” he asks kindly.

“Yea I'm fucking serious. I'm not going back,” Frankie mutters.

“Well, you’re going back to her,” Santi quips with a grin. 

Frankie finally looks at his friend, who’s flashing him his most radiant smile. “Ok, Pablo Neruda, calla y conduce.” 

—

You called in sick, and then you simply gave up. What’s the point anyway? For what purpose? To whose benefit?

Countless times you reached for your phone to dial up Rosie, missing her so much you could have screamed, but even for that sort of relief you were too exhausted. 

You drafted an email to your boss in Paris, enquiring about the modalities of a possible reinstatement, and failed to send it. 

You sat under the shower until the water ran cold, until your eyes ran dry, until your whole body began shivering from the loss of his scent on your skin.  

You stared at your ashen reflection in the bathroom mirror, setting a mental countdown to the disappearance of the purple flecks he had left on your neck, your shoulders, your breasts, the swell of your ass. They’ll be gone in a few days. Then your life will reverse to being contained into a memory. 

You crossed your arms over your belly and clasped your hips in the same way he had on the fire escape and in his kitchen. 

Underwear, socks, high collar T-shirt, jeans. You dressed methodically and remembered to take your Metrocard and to lock your door and walked over to Walgreens to buy some cheap concealer you weren’t sure how to use, applying it in the pharmacy aisle to cover the stubborn marks your clothes wouldn’t hide.

All this, so you could finally, finally ride the bus one last time to Benny’s place. 

The conversation didn’t go down easy. That’s one hell of an understatement. He wouldn’t hear, wouldn’t even let you speak. He followed you around his house as you gathered your belongings, (they were everywhere, fuck, what had you been thinking), and kept tugging at your arm for you to face him, trying to cup your face but you wouldn’t let him. Imploring eyes and vows to give you anything you ever needed, and you would have given ten years of your useless life to get out of there, to stop wanting to take him in your arms and thread your fingers through his hair. 

You were going to miss him. You missed him already. The realisation struck you like lightning and brought a foul taste to your mouth. 

In the end, you still kissed him. Or, you let him kiss you. 

“You’ll be fine,” you breathed into his mouth and his hold on you was bruising but it was not the same. Nothing ever was. 

Your best friend’s words rang in your ears, true and prophetic. 

Rosie, Will, Benny. You were, you are, throwing away the best relationships you’ve ever had over a one-night stand. 

Only there’s this space, between his jaw and his collarbone, along the strong line of his neck, where your face fits perfectly. Where you’re important, primordial. Where you’re protected and safe. And free to be what you can or want to be. That space was made just for you, along the strong line of Frankie’s neck, and that space is worth everything. Even if you can only know of it in your most valuable memory. 

You’ll choose him, again and again and again: over yourself and over everything. 

You wish Rosie had chosen you. You’ll be lost without her. You are, already. 

You’re confident you’ve taken the best possible decision. You couldn’t live with the guilt, nor the threat of his eventual resentment. 

Back in your apartment, you wiped the concealer off your skin and undressed to your panties. You put on a threadbare red T-shirt, flocked with the name “Chamonix” and a skiing figure that belonged to your grandfather. 

Then you drew the curtains. You crawled into bed and pulled the blue sheet over your head. 

You'll think about everything later. Rosie, work, packing, moving –for now you just need to sleep, because you’re too tired to hurt, too tired to weep. Heavy heart, heavy lids, heavy limbs. 

Time passes, and then a strong, repetitive banging rattles your front door, slowly penetrating the dazed limbo your mind has slipped into. It might be the morning, or the middle of the night. Your body is curled up and sore and you scramble out of bed, hitting your shoulder on the door frame as you step into the living-room. It doesn’t even occur to you to put on some pants before you open the door. 

He’s here. 

His broad silhouette backlit against the neon lit corridor, the left side of his face bruised and bloodied. 

He’s here. 

He steps into the dark apartment and closes the door behind him. His hands find your hips, and he pulls you in. 

He’s here. 

“Who did that to you?” you whisper. “Frankie, what did you do?”

Everyone he’s ever known has asked him a variation of this question, today. What has he done. What did he do. And for each version, there’s only one answer: he’s come back to you. 

“It’s fine,” he tells you, his heart painfully pulsating under the cut on his skin but you take his hands off your hips and instruct him to sit. 

In the bathroom, your numb fingers fumble noisily in the cabinet for a cotton pad and some alcohol. When you close the mirrored door, you’re met with your reflection again. You might be on the brink of tears or the verge of laughter.

When you come out, something feels different. It’s a minute before you realise he’s opened the curtains he came in to install with his friend less than a week ago. The setting sun casts a golden hue in your small living-room. He hasn’t sat, but he's taken off his cap and he’s pacing the small room. 

“It’s over, Gabrielle. I told him. Ben knows. So that’s that, he knows everything.” 

It’s a half-truth but the details can wait. Frankie stills when you approach him, knee popped to the side and hands on his hips, but his eyes betray his nervousness. 

They follow your trembling hands as they soak the rectangular pad with the yellow liquid. They search your face for a reaction, an emotion, but you give him nothing, focused on your task. 

You bring your hand to his face and start wiping his cheek before you stop, hesitant, your fingers releasing their grasp on the cotton pad that falls onto the carpet without a sound. Raising to your tiptoes, you peck an open-mouthed kiss to his wound. 

His skin quivers under your lips. You look up at him when you lick your lips clean of his blood, it tastes of copper and salt, and his eyebrows go so high, the crease between them nearly disappears. His shoulders ease down, almost unwillingly, there’s a twitch in his arm, and he sighs heavily. His hands go back to your hips, where they belong, and his heart is pounding. 

“You’re staying,” he says, his voice coarse and urgent. “I need to hear you say it, baby. With words. Say you’re staying.”

The fabric of your T-shirt paints your vision red when you slide it off above your head. One by one, you unfasten the press-stud of his shirt and open it wide. There’s a large bruise on the right side of his chest, under his collarbone. You brush your fingers over the purple mark, all the way down to the scar on his side. 

Your hands skate up along his sides and find their way around his waist to splay over his back and you press your breasts to the warmth of his solid body. You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, and you tell him. 

“I’ll stay. I’ll stay right here.”

You still can’t describe it, and you probably never will, but it’s fine, you won’t have to anymore. His scent. Ever present. Unforgotten. It surrounds you, now. And as Frankie takes the sides of his shirt and wraps them around you in a tight embrace, you both smile with relief. 

It’s been a long journey, but you made it home in the end. 

****

Bonus (because I had a hard time choosing between the two and I love @nicolethered 🧡):

Additional note: I HC that Santi and Frankie, and especially Izzy and Frankie, would speak a lot more in Spanish, between them. Unfortunately, I don't. So this is what it is 😔 A (French) friend who speaks Spanish kindly helped me with the translations. If you're a native speaker and I've messed it up, please slap me over the back of the head.

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts @mylostloversbookmarks

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

pairing: wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: Wanda talks with y/n about her past

content warnings: morning sex, grinding

word count: 3.8k

Series Masterlist

Y/n awoke with Wanda’s arms wrapped securely around her waist. She blinked away the sun as it hit her eyes, before giving up and moving her face into the comforting crook of the redhead’s neck. She brushed away the fleeting embarrassment of holding onto the other woman like a long lost childhood toy, squeezing her arms slightly tighter and releasing a sigh into Wanda’s soft hair.

Wanda shifted slightly, letting out a low groan that caused a small smile to appear on y/n’s face. She thought the redhead was adorable in the morning, the way that she would refuse to open her eyes until she had to, and the way her arms would hold y/n in bed with her until her mind was awake enough to start getting ready for the day. Y/n had mentioned this to her once, and was rewarded with an affectionate nose scrunch and light threat of punishment if she ever brought it up again.

“Wanda.” Y/n whispered against the shell of her ear, smiling when Wanda mumbled incoherently and tightened her arms. “We should get up.”

Y/n pulled back and saw the small frown on Wanda’s face, green eyes peeking out from under her lashes as she squinted against the sunlight. Wanda let out a sigh, closing her eyes again and pulling y/n closer. Y/n let out a huff of laughter, reaching up and smoothing out the small crease between Wanda’s eyebrows at her response.

“I guess I’ll just have to think of something else to wake you up.” Y/n said, more to herself than the woman under her. Wanda’s lips twisted into a smile at the words, but her eyes remained firmly shut. Y/n took that as a challenge, and buried her face once more into Wanda’s neck. Her lips met the soft skin there, and she began peppering small kisses along the vanilla scented path from Wanda’s ear down to her collarbone.

Wanda made a small noise in the back of her throat, and y/n slowly trailed kisses up the column of her neck until she reached the woman’s sharp jaw. She nibbled slightly against the skin, smirking against Wanda’s cheek as she let out another sound that sounded like the beginning of a moan. Y/n finally made her way to Wanda’s lips, unsurprised to find them already slightly parted. Y/n gently placed a kiss against the soft lips, pulling back to see Wanda’s eyebrows tighten.

Y/n smirked at the feeling of Wanda’s fingers tightening against her waist, choosing to ignore the unspoken demand in favor of continuing to press featherlight kisses on the woman’s lips. Y/n didn’t let her lips linger for too long, not wanting to give Wanda the chance to deepen the kiss. Once she felt the small pants the woman was releasing against her lips, she moved back to her neck and scraped her teeth along the sensitive skin.

“Darling, if you want to get out of this bed anytime soon you’ll have to stop that.” Wanda’s raspy voice sent shivers down y/n’s spine, but she simply hummed noncommittally and continued to bite softly into Wanda’s neck.

Y/n was so caught up in the pleasure of marking Wanda’s soft skin with her teeth that she missed the low groan of frustration. It wasn’t until she was suddenly flipped onto her back and staring into Wanda’s dilated eyes that she became aware of how much of a mess she had made the other woman.

“Oh great! You’re up, now we can start making lunch.” Y/n said, half teasing and half serious. Wanda just stared at her, the fingers in her hair pausing their movements and the redhead caught her breath.

“Are you really thinking about food right now?” Wanda asked, raising an eyebrow. Y/n blushed slightly, running her hands apologetically over Wanda’s waist. “I am pretty hungry.” She said, almost sheepish as her stomach made a noise of agreement.

“So am I.” Wanda’s voice was low, and sent a spike of heat straight to y/n’s core. She grabbed y/n’s wrists in one quick movement, bringing her arms above her head and pressing her arms into the pillows. “Stay.”

Y/n felt her heart do a funny rhythm in her chest as Wanda’s eyes slowly trailed up and down her body. When green eyes met hers again, y/n could have choked at the depths of emotion she saw in them. She didn’t have any time to ponder just exactly what emotion it was, because Wanda’s lips were on hers again and they were desperate.

Wanda’s tongue was relentless, and y/n sighed into the kiss, letting the redhead dominate her lips. She got lost in the feeling, knowing that she could kiss Wanda for hours and never grow tired of it. She almost missed the subtle shift of Wanda’s hips, gasping when she felt the redhead’s hot, wet center pressed against her thigh.

“Did I?” Y/n broke the kiss, panting as she felt Wanda grind against her thigh. “Is that because of me?”

“Darling, everything you do turns me on.” Wanda’s eyes were still filled with that unreadable emotion as they stared into her own. “All I have to do is think about you, and I’m wet.”

Y/n let out a choked sounding noise, almost forgetting the rule about not moving her hands as she chased Wanda’s lips. She wanted to understand what Wanda was feeling, why her eyes looked so full of… something.

Wanda’s lips moved smoothly against hers, slotting her mouth so perfectly against y/n’s that she wanted to cry. Y/n tried to remember when they had started feeling so perfect. When Wanda had started to feel like the other part of her soul, and why y/n couldn’t breathe at the mere thought of being parted from her.

“Breathe darling.” Wanda’s voice was gentle, her hands cool against y/n’s flushed cheeks as her fingers wiped away the tears she couldn’t remember forming as they rolled down her face.

Y/n remembered the words ‘I love you’ from the night before, and searched Wanda’s eyes for an answer. She couldn’t remember if the words had been spoken out loud, or if they had just been part of the dream she’d been falling into as Wanda’s arms had wrapped around her.

Wanda’s eyes were kind as she kept her fingers steadily on y/n’s cheeks, softly caressing her face. Her hips had stopped moving, and y/n basked in the feeling of the woman’s comforting weight on top of her.

“Please don’t stop.” The words were whispered, and y/n knew she had a pleading look on her face. She didn’t care though, not when Wanda was looking at her with those eyes. The eyes that held sparkling solar systems behind them and whispered promises of love every time they met y/n’s.

Y/n slowly moved her hands, aware that she was breaking a rule when Wanda’s eyes glanced sharply upwards. She kept moving them down, until they met the soft skin of Wanda’s waist. Her fingers dug in slightly. “Please.”

Wanda complied, moving slowly as her hands moved away from y/n’s tear free face and gripped her shoulders. Her hips moved faster, but y/n was only looking at Wanda’s eyes. She watched the sparkling green reduce to tiny slivers around Wanda’s dilated pupils, and the way that Wanda’s flushed cheeks caused them to shine even brighter. She watched her eyes as they refused to leave her own, as they lidded in an attempt to stay open when Wanda’s movements became frantic and her hips jerked unsteadily against y/n’s thigh. Y/n watched, when those eyes finally closed as Wanda shook against her, barely noticing the pain of her fingers digging into her shoulder.

Green eyes slowly opened, y/n had never stopped looking at them.

“Are you alright?” Y/n blinked in confusion at the question. One of Wanda’s hands reached up and brushed the tears off her cheeks. She didn’t know when the tears had started again.

“I’m fine, I just…” Y/n hesitated, her mind flashing back to those three words. “Just got caught up in the moment.” She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. Wanda’s pointed gaze told her it was unsuccessful, but the redhead simply sighed and let it go.

“Why don’t we go make some breakfast?” Wanda’s voice was soft, and for a second y/n was worried that she’d disappointed her. Y/n searched those green eyes as Wanda handed her a robe, but found nothing to indicate disappointment.

“Can we make some tea?” Y/n asked, a hopeful look in her eyes. Wanda smiled, tightening the knot on her own robe and nodding before gently tangling her fingers with y/n’s and pulling her towards the kitchen.

They made lunch in a comfortable silence, y/n preparing the tea and Wanda delicately making finger sandwiches. There was an unspoken agreement of eating in the living room, y/n seated cross legged on Wanda’s left with their knees touching.

“Did you mean what you said last night?” Y/n didn’t mean for the question to come out that quickly, but she had to know. Wanda paused mid bite, setting her sandwich down and taking a sip of tea. When she turned towards y/n, her eyes were serious.

“Yes.” Wanda reached up with one hand, letting it rest on y/n’s cheek softly. “I understand.”

Y/n relaxed, leaning into the touch. “How?”

Wanda’s eyes flickered slightly at the question, carefully planning her words. She must have hesitated for too long, because y/n shifted until she was fully facing her. She let her hand drop from y/n’s face, resting it lightly on her knee before looking squarely into the girl's eyes. She found nothing but curiosity, and took a deep breath.

“I wasn’t born in the states,” Wanda began, fighting the urge to twist the rings on her fingers. Y/n smiled slightly, “I guessed that, you have a pretty heavy accent right when you’re waking up. Or when you’re angry.” She smirked when Wanda squeezed her knee, a warning look in those green eyes. Y/n gestured for her to continue.

“I was born in Sokovia, in the middle of a war. My parents died from a bomb, but we survived.” Wanda’s eyes had adopted a faraway look, and y/n set their plates on the coffee table before gently tangling her fingers Wanda’s. “We?” Y/n prompted, her tone gentle.

Wanda breath hitched slightly, her eyes trained on their intertwined hands. “My twin brother, Pietro.” She let her accent wrap around his name, smiling softly as she remembered. “He was 12 minutes older than me, and never let me forget it.” Wanda let out a sad laugh, looking up until her eyes met y/n’s.

“We were orphans, and lived on the streets for a little while until HYDRA offered us a home.” Wanda’s mouth twisted into frown, “We joined their resistance, not realizing the true meaning behind our membership.”

Y/n nodded, having read the files on Sokovia and HYDRA's sadistic control over their resistance. She vaguely remembered skimming over a section detailing the various experiments a man named Strucker had carried out. She remembered reading something about… wait twins.

Wanda’s eyes had a knowing look when y/n’s eyes snapped back to her. “You’re one of the twins they used the mind stone on.” It came out more as a statement than a question, her voice barely above a whisper. Wanda simply nodded.

“Yes, I survived. Pietro,” Wanda’s voice cracked slightly. “Pietro did not.” Her eyes were filled with a devastating amount of emotion that y/n recognized, it was the same emotion she saw in the mirror when she couldn’t sleep.

Grief.

Y/n shifted closer, her legs pressed up against Wanda’s. Their hands were still clasped tightly, and y/n gave a reassuring nod when Wanda glanced hesitantly at her eyes. “What happened? With the mind stone.”

Wanda looked almost scared, her eyes scanning y/n’s face. Her grip on y/n’s fingers was almost painful. “You won’t leave if I tell you, right?” Y/n felt her eyes soften, a small smile appearing on her face.

“I told you about the red room and how much I enjoy killing bad people Wanda.” She said, almost teasingly. Wanda’s eyes still looked wary, even as her grip loosened slightly. Y/n tilted her head and gave her a serious look, “I won’t leave. I promise.”

“I have chaos magic.”

Y/n’s eyes widened slightly, and she sucked in a large amount of air as she processed the whispered words. She’d read about chaos magic, a couple years back when they were tracking down a coven of bloodthirsty witches. She nodded slowly, noticing the way Wanda’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “What can you do with your chaos magic?”

Wanda smiled slightly, her eyes dropping to their intertwined fingers. “Mostly telekinetic things, but I can also read minds.” She looked up at y/n through her lashes, watching her face closely for a reaction.

“That’s so cool!” Y/n gushed, her mind spinning with the possibilities of chaos magic. Then, her brain processed the last part of Wanda’s sentence. “Wait, have you read my mind?”

Green eyes looked guiltily at her, “Only your surface thoughts darling, I promise. Besides, your mind is very loud when you’re around me.”

Y/n groaned, noticing the guarded look in Wanda’s eyes. “No I’m not mad I promise!” She let Wanda search her eyes for insincerity, the woman visibly relaxing when she found none. “It’s just a little bit embarrassing, since most of my thoughts around you are far from appropriate.” Y/n felt a blush rise despite her valiant attempts, and Wanda smirked.

“I’m very aware of your…” Wanda searched for the right words as y/n ducked her head in embarrassment, “...elaborate fantasies.” She chuckled slightly, feeling something loosen in her chest as she tilted y/n’s head up with a single finger. “I find your thoughts quite enjoyable, darling.”

“Thank you, I guess?” Y/n let out a huff of embarrassed laughter. She looked Wanda squarely in the eyes, her expression serious. “Only surface thoughts though, right?”

Wanda’s eyes were sincere, “Only surface thoughts.” Y/n gave her a look, only a sliver of doubt in her mind as she looked into those wide green eyes. “I promise.”

Y/n found herself trusting Wanda’s words. She’d been taught how to spot a lie the moment she arrived at the red room, and found only the truth in Wanda’s words. She nodded, letting a smile appear on her face. “Have you ever thought about using magic during sex?”

Wanda let out a sharp laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Of course I have, and now I’ll be able to try it with you.” She could hear y/n’s mind racing with different possibilities, and tapped a finger against the girl’s forehead.

“As much as I love the idea of pinning you against a wall with my magic,” Y/n’s eyes widened as she realized Wanda had heard her thoughts, “I’m not done with my story.”

Y/n smiled, her blush returning in full force. “Sorry, I got sidetracked.”

“I know darling, it’s hard for you to think straight sometimes.” Wanda’s voice was teasing, but y/n just smirked. “It’s always hard for me to think straight.” She wiggled her eyebrows playfully as Wanda let out an amused sigh.

“We can make gay jokes later, storytime now.” Wanda said, with an air of finality. Y/n surrendered, leaning against the back of the couch and nodding for Wanda to continue.

Wanda took a deep breath, letting herself get lost in the memories. “I felt my brother die, right after I received my powers from the stone.” She felt tears welling up, and blinked them away. “Pietro died, and I didn’t understand the level of power I had or how to use it. I just remember feeling broken. Half of my soul was gone, and my magic responded to my emotion.”

Y/n listened, recalling the files she’d read on the decimated HYDRA base they’d found Ultron in. Wanda’s eyes glistened with tears as she continued in a shaky voice, “I destroyed the building, and everyone in it. I didn’t even realize what I’d done. I passed out after a few minutes, my body wasn’t ready for that amount of power yet.” Wanda’s lip trembled slightly, and y/n reached up to brush her thumb against it. She nodded in understanding, and a single tear made its way down Wanda’s pale cheek,

“I didn’t wake up until several days later, in a house I didn’t recognize.” Wanda continued, leaning into the comfort of y/n’s steady hand. “An older witch had found me, she’d felt the level of power I emitted and brought me back to her home.”

Wanda smiled, “Her name is Agatha. She was my mentor, and my dominant.” She looked up, her green eyes catching y/n’s confused ones. Wanda raised a single eyebrow, a sign for y/n to ask the question on her mind.

“I thought you weren’t a submissive?” Y/n asked, having a hard time imagining Wanda submitting for anyone.

“I’m not,” Wanda paused, tilting her head, “Not anymore.”

Y/n still looked confused, and Wanda elaborated. “I didn’t have any control over my power, it was still very new to me and I didn’t understand how to use it without immense emotion behind it. Agatha exerted that control for me, as my dominant.” Wanda let out a small chuckle, “I guess the secret to gaining control is giving it to someone else for a while. Does that make sense?”

Wanda looked at y/n, waiting for a response. Y/n nodded slowly, “Yeah, that makes sense. How did you go from a submissive with emotional issues to…” Y/n waved a hand at Wanda, “...this?”

“Well,” Wanda started, before letting out a huff of laughter at y/n’s vague gesture. “I figured out pretty quickly that I was good at leading people, and even better at sex.” She smirked at y/n, who nodded quickly with an adorable blush spreading across her face. “So, I interviewed at the company I now own and essentially became the previous owner’s right hand woman.”

Y/n tilted her head slightly, intrigued. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for Wanda to continue. “The previous owner was looking for a replacement anyway, since she wanted to retire. She mentored me in how to run a business, and after two years I was in charge.” Wanda finished, “She’s somewhere in the Bahamas now I think.”

“You still haven’t told me exactly how you understand my feelings about killing.” Y/n said, recognizing the story coming to an end. Wanda nodded, giving her a patient smile.

“I was getting there, don’t worry.” Wanda’s voice was teasing, and y/n smiled sheepishly, gesturing for her to continue. “Obviously, a decimated HYDRA base with no surviving witnesses causes questions. And since the Avengers released the files on Ultron and Sokovia,” She gave y/n a hard glare, and the girl winced slightly, “People look for the girl with powers who managed to bring down a high security base.”

Wanda relaxed her shoulders slightly, stroking her thumb over y/n’s knee to let her know she wasn’t angry. “The smart ones figured out who I was, and my team, the ones who cleaned up your dead guy’s body, are constantly on the lookout for people who come after me.” Wanda took a breath, glancing at her now-cold tea. “They let me know where those people are, and I find them and kill them while my team erases any evidence they’d collected.”

Y/n took a deep breath, processing Wanda’s words. She could feel those green eyes searching her face. She turned, catching Wanda’s eyes with her own. “Is it bad that I want to watch you kill someone?”

Her question caught Wanda off guard, and the redhead doubled over in laughter while y/n smiled. “You want to… why?” Wanda managed to say, still gasping for breath as y/n rubbed her back. Y/n shrugged, “I just think it’d be hot.”

Then, she winced. “That sounds so fucked up.” Y/n looked at Wanda through her lashes, gauging her reaction.

Wanda smiled reassuringly, leaning in until her lips brushed y/n’s ear. “The next time my team informs me that someone has found me, I’ll bring you with me darling.” Y/n felt a shiver run down her spine at the heavy accent in Wanda’s low voice. She turned her face slightly, her lips inches from Wanda’s.

“Is this our new form of foreplay?” Y/n whispered playfully, her hand dropping to Wanda’s thigh. “Because I’m totally into it.”

Y/n pouted when Wanda pulled away, a smirk on her lips. “Me too darling, but I’m still hungry.” Wanda gestured towards their half-eaten sandwiches and cold tea. Y/n sighed dramatically, picking up a sandwich as Wanda chuckled.

They ate in silence, y/n still processing the conversation. Wanda threw her a few pointed glances when y/n’s brain unhelpfully supplied various scenarios of Wanda using magic to fuck her, but y/n just shrugged. Then, she remembered something.

“Wait, do your eyes glow red when you’re using magic?” Y/n asked, recalling the weird glint she’d seen from across the dark dance floor. Wanda nodded, her eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “How do you know that?”

Y/n laughed, “I remembered seeing your eyes glowing red that one night that you found me on the rooftop, I thought it was some weird trick of light, but my brain wouldn’t let me forget it.” Wanda’s eyebrows raised slightly, and y/n continued, “That’s why I needed air last night, I kept remembering your eyes being red and feeling confused about it.” Y/n shrugged as Wanda looked at her apologetically.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that you’d seen that. I just wanted to know why you were upset.” Wanda said quietly, and y/n leaned into her comfortingly.

“I’m not mad, just happy that the mystery is solved.” Y/n paused, meeting Wanda’s green eyes fully. “But in the future, if you want to know how I’m feeling, just ask. I’m fine with you reading surface thoughts, but I’d prefer that we talk about feelings.”

Wanda nodded quickly, “Of course, I’m sorry. I’m just used to reading people’s minds too often. It won’t happen again.”

Y/n smiled, satisfied with her answer. “Wait, you’re used to reading people’s thoughts? Is that a regular thing for you?” She raised her eyebrows, but Wanda just smirked.

“Darling, I wouldn’t have gotten this far in my career without reading my opponents minds.” Wanda said, a self-satisfied smirk plastered on her face as she watched y/n.

“I guess that makes sense,” Y/n said, feeling blood rush to her lower body at the smirk on Wanda’s lips. She quickly finished her sandwich, setting her plate down on the coffee table as Wanda did the same. Y/n gave her a smoldering look, knowing that Wanda could hear her dirty mind racing with different scenarios. Wanda smirked harder.

“How about we test out your powers in the bedroom?”

Next Chapter

[enemyoflactose]

Yami Bakura blushing

Incoherent rambles under cut

I like to imagine that Yami isn't very used to being complimented about something subtle.

Like, how often is it that someone actually notices that his eyes start to swirl and jumble and tangle whenever he's happy?

Does anyone ever notice how long his eyelashes are?

When it comes to his personality, how often is it that someone cares enough about him to notice that he likes making dumb jokes?

What about his extreme attention to detail?

The man barely knows what it's like to have someone compliment him about literally anything that isn't the most obvious thing about him!

His hair is pretty! He knows that! He takes good care of it!

The figurines he makes are awesome! Of course they are! He made them!

His eyes are beautiful! Thanks! He tries to make them stand out.

He isn't even snobby about being complimented about any of that! He tries his hardest at anything and everything he likes just so someone will notice, but when it's something subtle that not even he gives much kind to... It makes him flustered.

The clicking noise he makes when stifling his laughter is... Cute? But, he didn't do anything to make it cute.

His acting is impressive? That came naturally, why are you praising it so much?

The way his bangs completely cover his eyes when wet is adorable. That's genuinely out of his control!

Ooooo and don't even get me started on how this mans would feel about gentle touches.

He practically has a heart attack whenever his hand is held and they start doing the thumb rub thing.

Whenever he's hugged he doesn't know what to do. Where are his hands supposed to go? How long is it supposed to last?

Kissing is easy. Just kiss back until there's no air left.

I think it'd be sweet if after awhile, he begins to get less flustered over simple touches and compliments, and will instead start getting jealous of anyone else gets complimented or touched in a similar way.

That should be reserved for him and him alone.

[frenziedslashers]

Hey! I was wondering if you had your writing requests open and if so if I could request a Timothy Lawrence x Male reader who was hired to be his body guard. If you only do head canon lists thats alright! But if you write one shots it could be something along the lines of the reader gets injured taking a hit for Tim and gets rather confused when Timothy gets concerned for his safety despite just doing his job. This may be incoherent I am very tired but thank you in advance!

The Body Guard;;

A/N: Yes, I can definitely write this for you, thank you for the ask!! Glad to see another Timothy enjoyer on my blog :)) Sorry if this isn't the best. I am trying to get back into the groove of writing!

Pairing: Timothy Lawrence x Reader

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, gun shot wound, male reader

He had no reason for a body guard, whatsoever. Sure, he was Jack's doppelgänger, but that's just it. He was nothing but a doppelgänger. In Jack's eyes, hell, in everyones eyes. He was replaceable. If he got shot that was on him and Jack could make a new body double. Yet, he was assigned you.

Timothy of course wasn't complaining when he met you. He didn't do a lot of talking when he met you. You intimidated him, to say the least. From your personality that Lawrence grew to love. To your appearance that he just couldn't get enough of. Everything about you was perfect, amazing.

You were handsome, and he was starstruck.

Weeks went by, even months and you were there with him everyday. Soon enough Timothy was an open book to you. Telling him everything that he could. Without risking getting in trouble by Hyperion, of course.

"I used to have freckles, you know?" He'd tell you, and his face would flush red under his mask when you revealed that he was probably adorable. He wasn't one hundred percent sure if you were being serious, or if you were being sarcastic. He took it as a flirtatious compliment, either way.

Nothing special ever happened at the Casino, so of course Timothy grew bored. He'd seek you for amusement. Some days you wondered why when there wasn't much for you to do besides protect him from the threats that ran around the casino. Such as the psycho's and bandits that ran to and fro.

"One day, if I ever get out of here, that is. I want us to go somewhere far away. Maybe to a moon on the outskirts of the system, where we can visit." Timothy day dreamt aloud, and you smiled. "Are you saying you want to run away with me?" You asked, and you broke into a smile at how flustered he grew. His gaze diverting from yours. The way he curled in on himself in the chair that he sat on.

"What? No! I mean, would you want to?" You smiled, pondering his nervous question. "I'd like to, if I don't get hired to watch anyone else." Timothy only nodded, reaching up to run his hand through his hair. "Right, right. Wouldn't want to take you from your job," you only nodded. You wished there was a way to help him escape this hell of his.

A few weeks later is when the accident happened. The two of you were running through the halls of the casino from a group of bandits that decided they wanted to pick a fight with you both. Typically they minded their own business, but today was not one of those days.

"What did we do?" Timothy asked in a panic, racing ahead of you as you turned to fire a shot at the psycho that neared the both of you. Timothy turning his head in time to watch the bandit go flying back with the force of the bullet in his chest. Blood splattering on the floor and wall beside it. It was truly horrific, but he was sadly used to it. Nearly as much as you were.

"I'd say we look too much like a meal to them," you shouted back, grabbing Timothy by the arms while tossing him to the side. Throwing the man behind a slot machine before you took a hit from the bullet that nearly hit him.

Timothy heard your shout no matter how hard you tried to suppress the noise. His eyes wide in terror.

"You're hit!" No shit.

You didn't say anything back. You only held your arm while taking cover beside the worrying male. Reaching for a grenade in your pocket before deploying it. "Cover your ears!" You yelled while shielding him yet again with your body.

The grand took out most of the bandits. Leaving you and Timothy with only a few more to wipe out - which wasn't too difficult. Once they were gone, Timothy was tugging you back towards his hide out.

"Tim, I'm fine," you snarled, but he was stubborn. Just as stubborn as you were. "You're not fine, you're bleeding and can hardly move your arm!" He snarled back, and you only rolled your eyes in defeat as he drug you to his bed. Grabbing some bandages on the way over.

"I've been shot before, you know? You think this is my first rodeo?" You asked, and he snorted. "Yeah, and I've been shot too. So I know that leaving it to fester isn't a good idea, bucko." He shot back with a chuckle. You only sighed with a nod in response. He was right, he always was it seemed like.

"So," He started in when it felt silent between the both of you. Helping you out of your shirt so he could get to the wound better. He never did seem to like the silence. He always got anxious, and nervous when it fell quiet. Especially when he was in predicaments that made him rather nervous anyways, like the one right now. Where he was so close to you that he could feel your body heat. The fact that you were just in the bullet proof vest under your shirt and jacket now was just the icing on the cake. A part of him wished you were shot in the chest just so he could see you without it. His eyes lingering while his hands held your arm.

"So?" You repeated when all he did was stare. IF anything, catching him staring at you like that fed your confidence that he might have some sort of attraction for you as well. "So uhm" he cleared his throat, "Where else have you been shot before?" He asked, chewing on his bottom lip as he wiped the blood from your arm. Taking note of the exit wound on the back. Doing his best not to hurt you in the process. Though you still winced and hissed when he touched your arm just right.

"A lot of places," you huffed out while he dabbed at the agitated skin. "I've got a nasty scar on my stomach, been shot in the back, my legs, been cut up by knives and shrapnel." You uttered, and he nodded. "Jeez, and I thought I had bad luck," he chuckled, and you nodded. "Thought you said you got shot before?" You questioned, and he sighed. "I did, but only twice, and I have the threat of my face or hand exploding." He chuckled, and you nodded.

"I'm sorry," He spoke, and you furrowed you brows, but quickly understood when he drenched your wound in alcohol with gauze. "Shit!" You hissed, and he pursed his lips with a worried brow. "I'm sorry, I know it hurts," he stammered, his hand growing a little shaky as he worked. Finally able to inject you with health serum after the wound was properly cleaned. Placing a bandage over top of it in order to help it heal properly. The serum only speeding up the process.

"Guess I need a better shield," you tried to joke, but Timothy hardly laughed at that. Only staring at where the bandage was placed now.

"I'm real sorry," he muttered, and you tilted your head. A little confused why he was repeating his apologies. "What for?" "For getting you into this mess! I don't deserve a body guard. Hell, I don't deserve having someone look out for me! I should have been the one who got shot," he spoke with distress. You only frowned at his words. You hated when he thought this way.

"Timothy, it's my job. If it wasn't you, it'd be someone else I was protecting. You do deserve having someone look after you. You don't deserve to be alone," you spoke, doing your best to get through to him, but it only seemed to make him more upset. "I just don't want to lose you," he muttered. Looking up at you with glossy eyes. "I can't be alone. Not again, not ever. Having you here is the only thing that keeps me sane. I was terrified when you got shot, I thought," he sighed, "I thought I was going to have to live here alone, with nothing but my thoughts and the idiots that run around here!" He snapped, and you smiled faintly at his ramble. Though you understood his worry, it was quite endearing hearing him say such things.

"Well, you won't lose me," he looked back over at you. "We're running away together, remember?" You asked, and he felt his face flush. thankful the masks as there to hide it. "I was hoping you forgot about that..." You snickered, reaching out to place a hand on his thigh. "How could I?"

[rad-rat-with-a-tophat]

day 6 of @thetheatergremlin's boyf riends week, technically. I'm sorry this is late. whoops

✨hoodie✨

Michael was absolutely not crushing on his best friend right now. Not at all, in fact, he was completely and totally calm.

Yeah that was a lie, a huge giant lie.

Michael was very much crushing on his best friend right now, and it was all one Jeremy Heere's fault.

The thing is, Jeremy was freezing all day every day. He had the internal heating system of a refrigerator. So when Jeremy had come over for an impromptu sleepover at Michael's fault and forgotten one of his many, many, cardigans, he started complaining non-stop about being cold.

And because Michael was an amazing friend who happened to be a 'living heater' in Jeremy's words, he gave him his hoodie.

Michael was currently regretting this decision, because it was 2 am and Jeremy was draped across Michael's lap like a cat, red hoodie swamping his skinny, twig, body. He was positively fucking adorable with his hair messed up, feet falling off the beanbag on side of Michael and head pressed into the beanbag on his other side.

It was thankfully Friday, so they could stay up as long as they wanted. However, they had both woken early for school and were now thoroughly out of it. The only thing that prevented them from falling asleep was the fact that they were two stubborn teenage boys who simply didn't want to sleep so they wouldn't.

"Michael," Said Jeremy's groggy voice, smushed into the beanbag they were both on, "What the fuck are we watching right now?"

Michael stopped staring at Jeremy in all his cuddly glory for a moment to look at the TV in front of them.

"Yeah I don't know,"

"Can you turn it off? I'm too comfortable to move,"

Michael looked down at the boy in his lap, "You are literally just a cat, you know that right?"

"Sure, can you turn off the tv though?"

"Anything for you Jere-Bear," Michael cooed.

Jeremy groaned and Michael could see the faint blushing rising up the back of his neck.

He's so cute when he blushes, Michael thought, Wait shit, now is not the time to hopelessly pine over your best friend. Because that is all you'll ever be. Best friends.

"Michael, are you gonna turn off the tv or not?" Jeremy asked, twisting himself to glare, blue eyes squinting in an accusing manner.

Oh my god he's literally so pretty for no reason like oh my god, Michael rambled in his head, gently pushing Jeremy off him to get the remote from where it was by the tv and turn it off.

When Michael turned back to the beanbag he was met with a rumpled Jeremy sitting crisscross like a fucking cat with Michael's hoodie, ten times to large, hanging off his frame. He was peering at him with half-asleep eyes, but nonetheless he was analyzing Michael for something.

"Uhh, Jeremy?" Michael said, frozen in place, thoughts and worries going through his head a mile a minute.

Fuck. Did he figure out I like him? Shit! Is he disgusted by me? Is he gonna say that I'm a creep and he doesn't want to be friends with me? Because he should, I'm such a fuc-

"You're really pretty," Said Jeremy, staring straight at Michael.

"O-Oh, I am?" Michael stuttered. All that was going through his head right now was the real life equivalent of a key smash.

Jeremy nodded, then started making grabbing hands at Michael, "Come here, I need to do something real quick,"

Michael obliged and stepped towards him, forcing his mind to block any thoughts that weren't completely platonic.

Jeremy stuck out his hands, grabbed Michael's face, and planted a messy kiss right on his lips.

Jeremy nodded at the sight of Michael's crimson face. "I'm gonna sleep now," He said, stifling a yawn and collapsing into the beanbag.

"O-okay, you do that Jeremy," Said Michael, "Wait, are you gonna sleep in my hoodie?"

Jeremy made an incoherent noise and snuggled himself further into the hoodie, too tired to care about how his back would feel the next morning.

Michael looked down at him, Damn you are whipped Michael, he thought to himself before picking up Jeremy's surprisingly light in his arms and carrying him to Michael's bedroom.